


Out of Sight

by Sab



Category: The X-Files
Genre: (Uploaded by Punk), Dreams?, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-10-26
Updated: 1999-10-26
Packaged: 2017-12-03 09:51:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/696984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sab/pseuds/Sab
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Yesterday I saw PRINCESS MONONOKE and REDUX I. I think this is where they meet. (Uploaded by Punk, from Gossamer.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Out of Sight

**Author's Note:**

> For Aurora Vere and Sister Phledge, who have not read this yet.

Oddly, as the morning waxes on, it's becoming less and less surreal.

Last summer, on a rare day off, I kicked it to the multiplex to see OUT OF SIGHT, more because it started and ended at good times than any other reason. Movies can screw up your whole day -- you go in and it's light out, you come out and it's dark -- but this one drove me even further beyond that most visceral shock. I exited in the dark and crossed the parking lot to my car with a lead weight tickling my stomach that wouldn't identify itself. I was halfway up the highway on-ramp before I realized what it was: I was in love with George Clooney. Wow. I had no idea.

It struck me just like that, like a call to arms, like a rabble-rousing initiation to fandom, and I spat out the window of the moving car, wishing I had a cigarette. George Clooney. Who knew? After years of TV and BATMAN, it took this one film, this one character, to make me realize. E.R. would never be the same.

Anyway, it was a similar surprise, like a switch had been flicked somewhere, the day I realized I was in love with Fox Mulder. It shouldn't have been a surprise, after six years together, but it was, it was brand new and infinitely bizarre. And it wasn't as if I hadn't asked myself the very question repeatedly over the past six years, but it always came up negative, even when I thought I was being honest. I liked him, admired him, respected him, but he wasn't my type, all lanky and Teutonic with a skewed nose-to-chin ratio and an even more skewed ego-to-sexlife. My friends insisted he was gorgeous -- hell, everyone who saw him did -- but I couldn't see it. Until last night. Wow. I had no idea.

He was sleeping when I went over, and I woke him up.

"Hey," I said, leaning against the doorjamb and blinking up at him with the best seductiveness I could pull off in these ridiculous shoes.

"Hey," he said, grinning down. He knew. He absolutely could read it, could smell the pheromones. "Come on in."

Up until the moment when my suit was crumpled on the floor and his penis was inside me is a blur -- everything after that played out in crystal clarity. It had been five hundred and seventeen days since I'd had sex. But there was sweat, and pulsing, and throbbing, and pounding here, all the pieces in place, everything lined up. Perfect. A wet dream, my wet dream, his. I was dead silent, biting my lip to keep from moaning, and so was he. It was oddly embarrassing, this carnal interaction, this feeding of bodies on bodies that clung to one another so desperately. It was cheating. I rode him like a god damned wild animated beast, like a cartoon horse, mane to the wind, all muscles aligned and shimmering. I came before he did, with a surge of guilt, and slid off, flushed. Guilt. Guilt. This was a new one.

"You can't tell anyone about this," I said, wondering if he wanted me to jack him off manually.

He laughed weakly. "Okay," he said.

"Not even Scully," I said.

He propped his chin up on his hand, his erection wilting.

"Scully doesn't count," he said, "I tell Scully everything."

"Don't tell her about this," I said. "Don't tell her I showed up at your door looking just like her and wouldn't let you come."

"Why?" he asked.

"Why wouldn't I let you come? Honestly? Because I realized it's not you who turns me on."

His eyes widened.

"And, yes, it was necessary for me to climax to reach that conclusion, so don't give me any of that woman-should-be-noble bullshit. And thank you. But that's not the point."

He was clearly thinking about speaking, but words weren't making it out of his mouth.

"It's both of you," I went on. "I can't stand to think that there's something you and I have that you don't have with Scully. I can't stand to think that I'd come between you."

" _I_ didn't come at all," he said, pouting.

There was a knock at the door.

"Get me out of here. I was never here," I said, pulling on my suit, my ridiculous heels, raking a hand through my red hair.

I threw him a last look, hungry, horny, disgusted, puzzled.

I'm not sure what happened first, but somewhere in the next instant the door to Mulder's apartment opened, Scully came in, and I woke up.

Five hundred eighteen days. And counting. I need a cup of coffee.


End file.
